


A Last Light (extinguished)

by Deiwimin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All That Is Toxic, But Not Traditional Sounding, Cannibalism, Captivity, Forced Ejaculation, Fun Games But Not For Theon, Infanticide, Isolation, Literal Vomit, M/M, No Fluff, Not For The Easily Disgusted, Not Paying For Your Trauma, Poor Theon, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Read at Your Own Risk, Sexual Content, Sounding, Threats, Threats of Bodily Harm, Torture, Torture Porn, abuse of living-creature, blut, literal shit, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin
Summary: Theon has been flayed and starved. He will play the games and go through training if it means a sip of water.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Thramsay
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	1. Training Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> So far, most of my works have been relatively fluffy. This one...well, do read with caution.

Theon was under the ice cold light of midnight. There had been a little hole, a crack between the stones; where he could not see much. Yet it allowed more than the dark in. Theon’s bare and the bastard is dressed in silk. His exhausted injuries were exposed to hungry unrelenting air. His satin scars paled in contrast to his unbroken skin. The cell was not even one with straw to piss or sleep in. The prince shivered, unable to close his eyes. He thought of home, shores. A bed. A fucking table. Floorcloth, to save him from the bone freezing wet grounds. Eventually he tried; harder than ever before. He focused on the shackles on his wrists and feet. The weight of them, how they cooly wrapped around his limbs. He dreamt no dreams in the cruel metal embrace; trapping him in a naked cage.

The bastard had come in the day; giving him bread, in exchange of words and pain. Theon couldn’t bear to stare at his flayed feet that night. He woke up, in what couldn’t be much longer than time to make a pot of cawl stew. He moaned in distress, holding himself for a few moments before letting his arms fall. He was weakened during his imprisonment. If he were to fit more vulnerable; there’d be nothing left. But things he would do for a bite of tripe now; he found they were many. 

He was sure Snow was feasting on meat, gravied and roasted rosy. And wine, washing soft cooked potatoes down. Theon looked up and felt his charred hair touching his eye. He wailed a little, accompanying the other miserable sounds from the cells next down. Theon had nothing to eat since two days past. He shat and pissed in the same spot he was chained on. The stench he became more accustomed to. But then Theon had to go again, and he remembered.

After he stained his clothes with all manners of bile and exretions, he had the garments stripped off him one by one. Snow said a slobbering pig had no use of a prince’s clothes. He did feel like such, and that was the worst part of it. Delirious with hunger; if Theon was granted even a dozen acrid apple seeds, he would surely consume them like a dying, wounded hog. He shifted all so suddenly, suffering through the sound of boots and metal peals, hoping and fearing. He knew they were coming for him. And Theon was ready to plead for even a leftover rib, a half rotted carrot, _anything_. They would have their fun of mockery, and then keep him alive, he told himself. His throat was caught in the dryness, and he tried to rip the two walls apart from each other with great discomfort. He had attempted to drink his own mess the night before, but his restrained aim did not match the extent of the piss.

The stepping ceased, and the clanking, scratching of keys eventually creaked the door open. Torchlight, too red, too orange for Theon’s dark; blinded him from the entrance shortly. The bastard stared him down. Looking him through all over, searching for spirit. “Little lord,” he demeaned, “you look famished!” he claimed in false surprise, his haughty smile revealing to his prisoner sharp, rough teeth. Was he to be made a meal of, he would find out tonight for certain. “Please…” He dared look up, and then he wished his tongue was heavied by a bridle of flame.

The bastard’s eyes, they greyed. He looked less merciful, than a storm dishonoured. “Please?” Theon rolled his head down again. “You should only pray you don’t _dis_ please me. Regardless, I am here to pay you some company. _Play_. You see I had a bet. I want a dog to game with today. You haven’t chewed in days, this should be good on your teeth!” Play. “If you win, you get to enjoy some water, perhaps some food as well. Would you like that; you would?” Theon was staring up at him again. Eyes so wide, Ramsay wasn’t sure if he wanted to gouge them from their bulges or push them deep inside. The squelch and screams would be a song to hear. The kraken was gaping, and well. That was another thing. He finally chuckled to himself dissolving, and placed his hand on his hip decisively. A surge of courage came through Theon. “What if I lose, m’lord?” But girded by risk, Theon would not inquire more. He must find what there was to failing; he had to swallow his pride and risk even his hunger to know.

“Then you may be unctioned, by your belly’s gore.” Cursed were the stones, and Theon went still. The man held no jesting tone. There was a twist and perverse fold in his stomach, his head a muddled fog. These were never games, they had worse than the savageries at war. He would die tonight then, unless he won. A dungeon was no place to ebb and fade. Not for Theon. Not an Ironborn. If he lives, he may at least stay to die at sea. The bastard of Bolton took behind him, and Theon’s vision was rustled black by fabric. He whimpered unwillingly, taken by surprise. Theon forced his lip to stop its tremors, feeling a barbaric smile chilling the back of his head. He felt like a pup, waiting to be buried or drowned.

Whatever the play be, it could not be less than cruel in its nastiness. There was a grinding sound, and the prince had never wished in more desperation for his sights back. Ramsay began speaking, in a low hushed tone. “Well, just for your training here, I have a few items for you to bite through. Grind and strengthen your teeth. Like a good dog, you must recognise the taste for each. At least three. I want you to try well. We’ll have a lot of fun with them, you and I. Grunt, you stay and pay us company. Good.” Theon heard shifting of boots, it must have been one of Ramsay’s boys, or a man of the gallows. He heard others distancing and shutting them behind; so this one must have been trusted. A presence in nearing distance appeared under his nose. It was cold, and he could smell reeking salt. Like an unwashed, rotting cunt. “Open your mouth then, bite down. You won’t release until my command.”

Closing his jaw and mouth around it, the lips were cut, and his palate pierced. But he knew what it was. It was a creature of the sea; salmon fish. But raw, old, and the scales still on. The opened flesh pervasively stank; worse than a forgotten cellar. But Theon knew by now; it could be worse, but oh mercies, please not much worse. Tasting his own copper dripping down his tongue, the flavour of the rotted salmon gagged him. The pain would remain for days, reminding him of repulsion and the stabbing bones. Shivering slightly in disgust, he made no sound. He could take more than this, but it was also what he dreaded. 

“You can open your mouth again. Hmm. It seems you’re behaving. I like that.” Theon released the animal, feeling its blood drooling out of his mouth, and inside was mingling with his. Theon wanted to spit, he had to. Before he let it trickle out, Snow held onto his jaw, catching it with his meaty hand. “ And I thought you Ironborn loved your fish! Hells, I heard your old man fucked his share of porgy.” Theon had to say, do something. The insult was beyond light. But the burning, loathful stare stopped any voice he might have had. “You won’t let anything drip out while it has been in, understand? You spit and the game is gone.” He was unsmiling and the command struck him down. There was no way to escape this now. There were fish scales, flesh and bone on his tongue and cheeks. He tried keeping them up for as long as he could, but the saliva built too fast. The bastard made him chew, and then painfully swallow. All cut through his throat, he felt it squeezing his breath. The stench assaulted his nose. Theon coughed, choked a little, and his tears soaked the cloth. Ramsay’s wight stirred.

Theon wanted to stand and ram a dozen skewers through the bastard’s throat, experience half what he was enduring. He said there were a few. How many were there, how appalling would they be? Then something rough and solid was poking at his cut lips. He slowly opened his mouth, waiting for the certain agony. A good length dived through his mouth, and prodded at Theon’s tonsils loosely, before withdrawing an inch. “Bite.” He did, and it crunched. He felt a sandy, dry texture; now there were splinters in his mouth. It was wood. They sank into his gums like a shipwreck to the sand. He was about to eat tree bark; god be merciful! His throat was dry enough, at least there was blood and rotted stock. At least it would slide. He hated his mind for making the thought.

“I wonder if you’re so daft, you actually lose,” the mockery was with much fascination at Theon’s attempts to keep calm. He was shaking without even noticing. He couldn’t see half a sliver of light. The cloth was too thick. His teeth hurt so awfully, the nerves screeched and steamed in his head. And then Ramsay had him snap it off. He could not balk, because there’s always something worse awaiting in Snow’s displeasure. He grunted deafening loud in suffering at the ache. The faster they moved on, the better, but what if the next item was steel? Was this the purpose of the game all along? To render him toothless. This must have been it. He sobbed, still sucking on his piece of bark. A thick string of blood ran over and under, rolling slowly to his navel. Ramsay gave himself a touch, though still irritated. His previous day had not been agreeable at best, but this wretch was entertaining all his needs to be soothed. The fool hadn’t realised he was missing a tooth now.

He watched the prisoner struggle chewing through the tree skin and slowly gulping. He watched a tear race down his chin in prized satisfaction. He watched closely for any sign of fighting back. The next thing had to be placed on a bowl, but Ramsay did not shy away from scooping it up. “This is a gift from Helicent, so you would do well to treat it as such.” He relished in the lordling scrunching up his nose. This was an easy guess of course, but no less fun to watch. “Well, open now.” He could see Theon was trying, he wanted to obey this, but he didn’t like what was being held so close to his face. Ramsay smiled in excitement. Grunt was next to them, holding the final bite. He finally widened his mouth, sobbing now. Was it please he said again? “Aw,” he cooed. “You’re this overwhelmed? She’s only a cur. Come now.” He gagged and gagged, when he sealed his lips he gagged even more. Theon tried chewing open mouthed, the brown getting all over the lower of his face. Ramsay forced his jaw shut, teeth grinding. He was turning all red now, repulsed and surely, also miserably in distress.

In what was an eternity, the unfortunate bugger pushed down the last remains of the dog shit with a shudder and an awful moan. Ramsay had to appease his lively spirit; so grabbing onto the fruit he faced Theon again. He was struggling against his bound limbs, not willing to be a part of the game, yet too weak to stop anyone. Almost too weak to turn his face aside. Ramsay pulled his head back straight, urging him to take a bite, he was sure it was good for him. In the end he had to pry him open, forcing it in rudely.

It tasted sweet, like Theon had never thought possible before. Sweet, with streams of velvet rushing down his abused tract. He knew the taste well, they were often there on the kitchens’ bench, ready for eating. He gasped at the shattering honey, the treacle of life. It didn’t sting, it did not stab. What had taken over the bastard for that one, Theon could not think. It was soft, and he chewed until every grain and peel of the meat was gone. He lamented how he did not bite bigger from it. Was the next one good, was the next one going to be a good taste too? Theon then had something cold to his lips. He could not understand, apart from the supple texture. He could not see the giddy, exchanging glances, the cruelty. 

“You may bite down, the hardest you can.” The violent spray on his face placed him in a manner of shock. _What did he bite into, just WHAT WAS IT?_ An animal? No fur, no. He could hear hollering laughter; as if he did something unpleasant, yet still impressed both men. His stomach began to sink and shrink, feeling hazed in worry. Was it someone’s cock to be this humorous? But it was too thick. Even the piece of definite flesh, already coated in his spit was too large for that. He snapped back with the sudden whisper, hot on his ear’s shell. “ What a display, tiny lord! Seems I could make a moil of you yet.” Theon remained anxious, attempting desperately to become in control of his own form and mind. Only truth was; once the bastard left him to his own, there would be too many pieces of the kraken to collect in the end.

Theon remembered when he was branded. The agony was blinding white and screeching reds. Later it was washed away, and there stayed a dry blackened brown, surrounding the flayed man. Skinner. He could never forget the name of the savage who had been admiring his own handiwork, while Theon broke distantly. Worse than a slave; they branded him like cattle, with nothing to hold onto in between his teeth. No man could raise his head after the debasement. So Theon lost much of his speech. He could not demand, or bring himself to feel justified. Even now, he wouldn’t defy his captor. The prince knew he was a valuable hostage. They wouldn’t harm me, he told himself. Well, they wouldn’t starve me. Now he only knew Ramsay wouldn’t kill him, now where he hoped to drown the most. He was being chipped away in bits, and the world encouraged it.

“Show me what a good hound you are, tell me what you were fed.” He paused, and suddenly the monster felt closer than ever before. “Impress me.” Theon breathed fast and prepared himself. Ramsay was not a patient man, and Theon had to force his voice. “Salmon, m’lord, and wood...tree bark. And-” He must say, or else, “shit, and,” the poor thing was ruffled and thinking so hard, there was nothing to think. _Careful_ , “a...pear.” Theon blinked into the fabric, if was warm, safe. But it tightened every second, suffocating his eyes, grinding dangers on him. The torch they brought was burning, through the pores it was a terrific red. And it was what pushed Theon in opening his stained, sticky mouth. “An arm…?”

There was a tight pull behind his head and the fold came away. His eyes filled with Ramsay’s face, and under, at the edges, something dark was there. “I still cannot believe Theon Greyjoy would do such a thing!” He feigned disbelief. Then a smirk came to his face. “Yet you did murder the boys at the mill. This had always been the next step for you. You are deserving of every ill fate now, you can’t deny this.” Was Ramsay his monster, Theon hysterically questioned, if this was payment, for Turncloak’s deeds. Ramsay stepped further out, revealing a bloodied purple blue. The image burned his eyes; everything flew around him, and it was vile chaos. Theon screamed.

“What manners, is this any way to receive a meal? Even Turncloak should know, let alone a hungry bitch. _I nourished you._ ” Theon looked away, he couldn’t look anymore. He was dying, he felt his nerves cramp in his mind. Inside him from depths he could now see horrified, something was rotting Theon from beneath. He was still letting out little screams and long gasps. “Look back at it, **filth**. You forget yourself.” He didn’t force his neck this time, Ramsay wanted Theon to turn by himself. He gagged heaving up, wouldn’t look down. The ground was dangerous and dragging him in roots so long and thick.

As if having waited for too long; Ramsay pulled out his dagger, nicking his front teeth with it. He finally brought it down over impulse. The shaken cry pacified him. Theon finally looked down, but to his bloodied hand. “It’s alright,” Ramsay’s voice was strained in a way. “You may be trained amply. I don’t like disobedience, but you are a fun, amusing wretch. I just might be patient, but if you tire my generosity...” Theon was listening, he was, was he. Ramsay wanted him to look, and they both knew the sight wouldn’t let him pry away once he did.

Theon burned blank and ashen.


	2. Training A Reek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something curls up and dies inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Morgelyn and GinFourEight, I wouldn’t have finished it within this decade without you!

“Well my prince, you have beat me.” Grunt was smirking silently, but Theon was marble. Snow pulled out a skin, he crouched over his captive’s face. Theon’s eyes were there and away. Ramsay’s breath was hot on his nose. Theon thought of home, but it did not feel right. He couldn’t ask for death, it would be all much worse. He couldn’t think of home, he had no home. Theon is a lie.

Startled by the revale the kraken’s body sank deep. He was never to revert into the once proud lordling he was. What if Ramsay claimed more of his skin and flesh, then he would be an empty vessel. The purple, dripping muddle at his feet was proof of it. The bastard took that much. A deeper part of him did not even think of death. He wanted to be dragged with his hair and feet to the earthy hells, where he shall reside until the earth crumbles, and perhaps there shall be sea, but not before aeons, cruel seasons and unrelenting punishment. Anything was fine, to take him away of his being Ramsay’s plaything. He has known to receive what he was given however, and so would not dwell for other than that.

They left him with his breaking. Nourishing his ruin carefully, letting it bask and be set in isolation. They let him have some water first, then lay him on a table, only his breeches allowing a smallest dignity. Tied in his usual shackles, gasping after attempting to hold his breath. How could he breathe. The guilt was overwhelming him, awful.

Then the next day they had come over. Ramsay was with a following, Theon could tell from the steps, a lot of breathing and murmurs. He was to be made a spectacle of once more, and he should not deny them the amusement. He must have been a laughable sight, curled up, wrists chained, writhing on the table as they approached, and then stilling, dead. Someone had poked him with a finger, because he could feel himself jumping his stomach away from the offending digit. Manly tones, so they must have been Bolton’s men. Or the Bastard’s boys. A careless chuckle gave away the latter. A man had asked. “What happens if I win then, m’lord?” Theon was weakened, though not daft. He knew they were speaking for him. “Then we flay his balls of course.” With that Theon looked up instantly, moaning and letting out a wail, as if they were to do so in that very moment. He curled into himself, even more protective of his belly than before.

He was hauled up and forced to spread out, like a wetted piece of book, or perhaps an octopus trying to avoid the flames of a fire. He hadn’t put up much of a fight as they sat him in the chair again, though his face told all how much he wished to sob away. His stomach gurgled in hunger, and yet reminded him of his last meal, how much he hungered and felt repulsed, then the punishment for losing this time. He wished with all his might he wouldn’t care. Whatever humiliating, painful game they placed him through, he would remain emotionless. Not even stoic, for he lost the right to that a long time ago. He was still looking at his trousers when he realised his eyes adjusted to the torchlight. He stared up to what was a dozen men and the bastard. “Good morrow.” But then there was a sack over his face, covering his head. “Good nite.”

He could hear laughing voices at how pathetic he had become, he was sure some of them relished at the view of him, all tamed and utterly not daring. His vision slandered his mind in that moment with the day before; and flashed a chill in him, muddling his stomach. He should not live with himself, more than Robb lived. More than Ned Stark, Rodrik or Maron did. Theon stayed silent when he felt more hands at him. He went stiff, and would not directly comply to his tying of arms and legs. Only let them do it, burning his head with images he never wanted to dream of again. The night he slept on, he heard wails, blue skin and purple, eyes large and unforgiving, clawing at him in the darkened rain. He screamed then, and woke up. The skies were opening outside, though Theon could not feel so, he thought it. That had been some time before they came in the room for him, with torches bright.

“Princeling,” Theon’s head turned up in attention. “My boys here were thinking what jolly jape we should play today. And seems we decided on a bet!” Theon’s heart stopped, and sped. Bets held risks, every one was a death of a wish. No matter what, Theon would be their ready clod to tread upon. Making certain he heard him, Ramsay stroked down his head from the fabric. His scalp tinkled, and was terrorised by the pleasant sensation. “What do you have to say, lordling?” He heard taunting noises made at him, ‘lordling’ being a befitting jape at his expense. He wasn’t ready to answer to the devil softly mocking him, he only readied himself to wail, or scream or plead. But he spoke weakly, despite the pound in his ears. “What sort is the bet of, my lord?” And shock pooled through his entire body as a rough pair of hands were on his breeches, unlacing and tearing the covering apart, exposing him. His throat was stuck. Theon’s nauseous mind was cracked with bewilderment and abstract terror.

“O, _Theon_.”

There was nothing to be said, as he felt shuffles in the air, men parting and moving and awed in interest. Then their voices were suddenly profound almost, as if they were trialing the revival of a burnt cat. Theon shifted in his anxiety, not willing to know what happens next. Then to his lips there was a cup, and having no choice but to drink, Theon found there was water inside, to his relief. A soft caress to his shoulders turned into a gentle, loose kneading. Feather light, and he felt himself heavy all of a sudden, almost calm. The same pair of hands trailed down his chest, stomach, belly, and to his immediate upset, his loins. He unrelished the feeling of growing hard, as the slow teasing ensued. He was helpless under the touch. He hadn’t held himself that way ever since he entered the Dreadfort. His constant shame and worries distracted him far from this pleasure. Only it wasn’t entirely pleasure. He did not want this, and everyone had known it. But it did not stop the mockery of course. One man jested at how well he was being _milked_ , and Theon cried. Then the bastard hushed him from afar, and he recognised it had not been Ramsay demonstrating how to reduce a breaking man into tears. He was glad it wasn't _him_ of all the others, and let his tears fall freely, behind the straw sack. The touches soon ceased to nothing, just as his prick was standing. Then he felt them again, sliding onto him wetter, warmer and suddenly into him. He was feeling faint by that moment, and could not process the invasion to his hole.

It was an original sensation, pleasuring him from within. Burning, yet in the most luscious, quenching way. It pulled and reached to places that made him gasp loudly, before he realised what had become of his voice and much feverish mind. His erection pulsed and twitched, being opened gently, throbbing with every small shift. It was flexible, and he couldn’t stop quivering as it invaded the most sensitive depths of his hole. Then it felt as if a thin weighted string was placed over his hard cock. He had just felt his balls tighten as they did so, and now he was truly scared. It was soft and warm, like a tongue, wet. The sensation reaching into him made him cave his belly, the part it touched was far too intimate. He was still restrained on the chair, and could not wriggle himself out. Writhing now, burning his mind in unimagined pleasure, the princeling gave up trying to think. They wanted to play games and place their betting, but he wanted to come so bad. It warmly rubbed him from inside and he climaxed a flash of blankness. Theon yelped in unexpected surprise, the dreaded thing of pleasure slowly slid out along with his seed.

The sack on his head was removed rudely. Theon’s vision returned, and down was his spend, along with a dark string that wriggled. Chills frosted over his back, slowly thawing, as he choked up bile. His vomit splattered down, and some laughs answered his haplessness throughout the room. The stench assaulted his nose, and he gagged up a little more. Some of it had mixed with his seed by the time he was done coughing up sick. He was repulsed, disgusted and truly a pig. Everything they had done to him only showed him how much filth he had always been. He trembled slightly as the room shook along with the chilling ridicule around him. Then Ramsay told a tale.

_She was so confident in herself, the dumb wench. She thought she had something of me. Then she said to me she was with a babe in the belly, and I told her not to keep it. Then the bitch decides to think herself smarter, distancing herself until it was big and bloated. She thought I would take an understanding of her foolish head, and turn her way. I told the stupid wench to stay close, at least until it was born. After that Damon and I had a hunt, and the poor babe was forgotten in the cold. When it was taken back in, it was living its’ last. Guess who bit into its cold, dying throat?_

Theon heaved further, his vomit scorching blackened bile. It was his own, and was used as game property. Just for one foul jape; to torment a man in a cell. Theon was slapped hard awake, as they discussed his reaction of the worm. “Now, what _do_ we call one who orgies with slugs and worms? Drills through chilled babe throats? Should you perhaps be a lowly maggot?” Snow delivered his words with meaning. Theon was somewhere equal to a flea, an earwig. A maggot then. Resounding laughter pierced through him, overwhelming, scaring and dizzying. All were barely holding their bellies in, and one man wiped a tear. Theon cringed lowly at the jest, moaning in disgrace and remembrance. He truly was a shame to his kin, and wished for the moment not to be a prince, knowing not his end.

“What a terrible mess you’ve made, just after Alyn serviced you so valiantly. I offer so much hospitality, yet you won’t eat, and won’t rejoice with us. Are you a guest truly, or an ill mannered witch?” Ramsay fingered the splatters on the floor and came close in front of him. “Well, eat, lest you offend me further.” Theon opened up, tasting his own seed, moving his tongue away from his pallette. Ramsay finally picked up the thick worm, entering his lips. Theon was whimpering, shuddering at the tiny beast that moved over his tongue, realising in horror that he would have the slug next. He had to chew, or his balls would be gone by agonising time. After they flayed them, he could see the puss rotting them away. And he would beg for the bastard to cut them off. What male would ever have a fate as such befall him? He lapped up the last of his churn, all off Ramsay’s fingers. He had never wished to bleed, and hope to lose his breaths forever more than then.

No rescue would be worth for him. Finally, he cried again. Theon let all his tears fall, and wailed for the bastard of Bolton. The bile was sharp, teart, and had him losing all his faith in his body. Between his teeth there were pieces so small, laced with his come. He could not spit; never spit out. It was a lesson he learnt well. Ramsay had never mentioned during all this time, anything about what he really wanted from Theon. But it was implied, here and there, in his glittering eye, on his firm hand’s grip. Ramsay hadn’t liked him as Theon. He only said it once, in fact it was off hand, though it stuck. Theon knew he had to give up for now, maybe not even fight for another day. Capitulate, no plans ahead, just yielding himself to the bastard’s persistent force. Perhaps hope some of it will end, but hope was something that hurt. He was shattered already, and all meaning was lost. He can’t ever be a man now; he can only be Reek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out legal bestiality is where Theon draws the line...😶

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't puke on me! I take no responsibility. Which was your favourite part? I think the salmon was the worst. I fear marine creatures with a passion, unless they are freshly chopped up, cooked and on a platter.


End file.
